This time a taxi driver is waiting for us. He recognises us straight away, as if we were in Italy where you notice a niqab straight away. It looks like as if my husband has been knowing him for his entire life but it’s not the case: they are only from the same city.
We follow him outside.
The door opens up and shoots on us some air – hot air of course.
We continue our route: shirts, t-shirts, hijab, qamis, trousers, niqab, abeyet.
And all of a sudden you find yourself in a place where you are still the same, you are just not so strange anymore.
Your strangeness, here, is not the dress, but that “absurd” search for a coherent life. Continue reading